He Shall Fight on the Beaches Against Himself

Daniel Golden
ENG 315

He Shall Fight on the Beaches Against Himself

The words hit Phillip’s chest like a bomb to a bunker. He heard the top brass and their formal statements and suggestions. The testimonies were then read. Judgment had been passed as the meeting closed. He’d been told to halt all his flights from the base. Grounded. He’d been told he was “suddenly unpredictable” and he would need to see someone soon and talk about his “mental state.” That morning, he’d been a hero, nationally, and rumors hinted at internationally, known. He was the poster boy for the RAF, for Britain, and, at times, for democracy itself. He was the epitome of a fine soldier. He had several commendations and a few defense missions under his belt. He did everything according to the letter throughout his life. Captain Phillip Oliver Browning, the ideal son for England. And now he was treated like a rookie in the woods without a compass. What am I without my plane, country, or name?

He walked from the sterile conference room into the nearest restroom where adjusted his uniform in front of a mirror with the words phrase “Loose Lips Sink Ships” above and below the frame. His blue, battle dress uniform was clean and pressed, as it always was, shoes polished, despite the gravity of the hearing. His holster, now void of a pistol, was squarely on his right hip. His bright blonde hair was cut according to Ministry of Defense and RAF Handbook standards, his face cleanly shaven, with his blue eyes shining in glow of the single bulb hanging in the center of the small room. It was rumored that is was this very image, albeit with a broad smile, was circulating within Germany, subject to many admirers and clubs. His Aryan-like portrait must have made many citizens giddy with a since of irony it conveyed. The caption would probably read “Obvious infiltration of the RAF”.

He left the restroom and walked into the late afternoon sun, not knowing where to go from there. If he went straight home, his wife would be there waiting for him, and he’d have to explain why he wasn’t flying. And Phillip knew, as a runner-up husband, she’d have little reason to stay. Why would lovely Rose continue to be with an “unstable” man? The other option of heading back to the barracks or airfield was also called in question in Phillip’s mind, as the guys would surely ask why he’d been called to that meeting. He’d be honest, of course, and they’d all take a step back from him. Camaraderie had it limits, too.

Maybe that doctor would offer some advice or some help, but it’d be at least a week before an appointment would be set up as he would be flown in from America. So Phillip to avoid any such of confession for the time being, he walked toward a favorite pub of his, sun setting fast behind the nearby town’s buildings. He journeyed to Hamlet’s Hamlet, where everyone knew him but not that day’s horrid events. He looked forward to answering civilian questions, hopefully avoiding the truth of that day, but not wholly lying. Before, they had asked why he joined, what he felt in the air, how many Nazis he’d killed. And Phillip would be glad to repeat the stories. To do more for this country than my father did. Being in the air was like feeling free from all other concerns of the Earth below. He’d lost count at 20.

The plan was to stay low and enjoy a final night of drinks and glory, before heading home to Rose. But it seemed fate wanted Phillip to feel approaching loneliness he was surely destined for sooner than later. Fate saw Phillip as a geyser, spraying the toxic tonic of his reckless behavior on the ground, away from his plane.

Phillip was heading down a back alley path when five young men stepped out from behind corners and trash bins on both ends of this back way. Phillip trudged forward, footfalls solid and resounding in the enclosed space. He gaze was set straight ahead. The casual observer would have commented that Phillip was oblivious to the air of danger that enveloped the alley. The casual observer would also be wrong.

“Oy, flyboy Browning! I know you!” began the biggest of the men, grin on his face. All of the men were wearing the same, slightly beaten black suit getup, seeming like copies of each other, right down to the black hair and plaid, grey shirts under their suit jackets. Phillip noticed the holey bowler that the big one held in his hand. He was more concerned with the cricket bat in hands of the man to the right of this Campbell.

“Ah said ‘oy’!” shouted the leader. Phillip paused. I won’t get to stroll on out of this encounter. “You are that pretty boy Browning, right?”

“I am,” is all that Phillip said, with a voice that silenced radios on many missions. Campbell was, unfortunately, not attuned to the tone.

“Looky here, boys! We hafe ourselves a gen-u-ine ‘ero in our presence,” announced the charismatic fool, exaggerating the circumstance, arms spread wide, bowler still in hand and open toward Phillip. “We should treat ‘im wif da respect ‘e rightly deserves, eh?”

“Sure thing, Campbell” smiled the man with the cricket bat, twirling it in his hands, casual taking mock practice swings toward Phillip.

“May I pass?” inquired Phillip with the unnerving calm of a man purchasing a newspaper, without the polite smile or well wishes.

“Well, the matter of the situation is that, you, Browning, sah,” mocked Campbell with a botched salute, “make for a nice target fer me the gang ‘ere. If the papers got word out that we beat you up a bit, we earn some respect. We cain’t fight for Britain against them Nazis, but we can sure rule these streets while you lot are gone. Our number would surely multiply with an ‘accomplishment’ like a battered Browning on our résumé,” explained the man, slowly circling Phillip, confident in his logic. “Wif our numbers larger, we can resist those Bobbies and move onto getting what we want. More people, more stuff to be stolen, er, rather, ‘gathered’ during those annoying bombing runs.” Phillip remained still, standing at parade rest by the end of Campbell’s monologue. “I’m sure you know about those bombing runs better than us, eh? Especially with those escorts. Well, maybe you don’t know much. But Johnny prob’ly did, righ’?”

Phillip’s head slowly turned toward the leader. Phillip’s face was of stone, the color of his eyes drained away, leaving just a gray outline. His jaw line tensed, stepped back with his right foot and bringing up his arms. “Let me through,” whispered Phillip. The words were a warning. Two of the gang member behind Phillip backed away slowly. Campbell, McFarlane, and the Richards to Campbell’s left took the words and twisted them into provocation.

“We just can’t do that.”

“Then let’s see who will be left ‘battered’.”

“If you are a fighter like your bother, then you’re going down in flames, too” chuckled Campbell, then ordered his right hand man, who he called McFarlane, to run forward first. Phillip noticed the form he used when holding his bat. Primary school style. Amateur. Phillip easily dodged the man, causing him to stumble and trip due to his misplaced momentum. As he spilled over on the ground, the bat slid toward the two cautious members down the alley. Phillip stared straight at them, resulting in them turning right around and fleeing the scene of the ambush. Phillip walked past the first assailant as he was slowly stirring from his unexpected fall and picked up the bat.

“Are you sure you want to continue?” inquired Phillip, turning to face the remaining targets, pointing his new weapon toward the two men, hoping this bold move would resolve this conflict without wounds for either party.

“We don’t give up like those bloody boys,” spat Campbell. “Come on, Richards, let’s smash this cocky pilot, then grab a pint at Zeppelin Shelter. Both he and Richards ran toward Phillip. Phillip brandished the bat like a professional and waiting. As Campbell came closer, Richards slowed down, leaving a clean shot for Phillip. Campbell tried to hold back the bat, but one swift swing simply hit his fingertips as it passed and hit his chin squarely on the cleft. Phillip pulled the bat back and jabbed it at Richards’s chest as if it were a rapier before Campbell landed on the ground from his hit. McFarlane stood up as Richards tripped back to a wall. McFarlane rushed Phillip from behind, latching his arms around Phillip’s neck. Phillip knelt down as McFarlane locked around him, trying to flip him. McFarlane was heavier than Phillip thought and wound up falling hard to the cobblestone. Phillip landed on top of McFarlane, with Campbell and Richards sprinting from their respective locations, ready to kick Phillip while his was on the ground.

Thinking quickly, Phillip rolled to the right when Campbell and Richards were inches away, effectively having their punched and kicks hit McFarlane, who was still determinatively locked onto Phillip. McFarlane immediately let go, giving Phillip the chance to continue rolling, then bringing himself back up. McFarlane lay curled on the ground as Campbell and Richards locked eyes with Phillip. Battered, but still standing, both hoodlums ran toward Phillip. Phillip stepped to the left of the two men barging toward him, hitting Richards’s knee cap as he ran by. Leg out of commission, Richards crumbled to the ground, sliding into the alley wall face first.

Campbell slowly turned, just feet away from Phillip. Campbell glared at Phillip. Phillip remained stoic.

“Ya know,” began Campbell, “you’re a tough fellow. I’m sure me boss would like it if you weren’t hurt by us, but ‘stead, joined us?”

“I decline the job offer,” retorted Phillip.

“Then I guess it’s a fight to the end for you, is it?”

“I guess it is.”

Campbell pulled back his shoulders, positioned he legs, and ran as fast as he could toward Phillip. Phillip angled his bat to its side and hit Campbell in the temple. Campbell fell to the ground instantly. Phillip dropped the bat own its owner with a loud crack as it landed on McFarlane’s head.

Phillip left the scene and went straight to the pub. But in lieu of drinks, Phillip had his wife Rose waiting for him to walk through the faded yellow door. The explanation he hadn’t prepared yet was now at the forefront of his mind.

“What happened, Phillip?” demanded Rose, compassion nowhere to be found in her stance or voice. While she looking lovely wearing a blue dress with white trimming, her best teaching outfit, her round face had a searing glare on it that was reserved for whipping only the most delinquent of children. “The Major called you to clarify that your grounded state was to last until you got approval from a psychologist. Why didn’t you tell me you were grounded? Why do you even need to speak to some Freudian fraud? What happened today?”

Phillip sighed. Liquid courage would ease the situation, but the line of access to the Guinness was cut by Rose’s presence. He looked straight into her knowing, knowing that she would leave near immediately when he told her the truth. And not only would she leave, but the pub’s loyal customers would turn away. No one would understand why he would admit to his actions. Honor above all else.

“I lost my cool in the air. Johnny was shot down, right in front of me. I saw the flames and smoke surround his Hurricane, and heard his radio broadcast his screams. No one was there for him.” Phillip looked down to the floor. “I wasn’t there for him, at the end, when he needed someone.”

Phillip glanced upwards to further explain, he eyes lost in the past event of that day, reflecting on the hatred he had felt toward the enemy, toward life’s unfair rules. “I lost it. Johnny shouldn’t have been the first to get shot out of the air. I went on a crusade. I broke formation from the other Spitfires and went straight for the bugger Messerschmitt I thought shot Johnny. Once the bastard went down, I moved through the German ranks, taking out a full escort and bomber before being shot myself. I retreated to find that not only did I take out those planes, I endangered other pilots, directly resulting in three other downed aircraft, according to ground spotters.”

Before Rose could say anything in response, an older police officer ran into the pub, short of breath, and called for help, reporting three men critically injured in the alley near the pub.

“Officer, I injured those men,” clarified Phillip.

“Did you know that one of those men is dead?” inquired the old man, still panting.

“No. Not at all. I just fought them off when they ganged up on me.”

“Well I know you, Captain Browning,” said the man, running fingers through his gray hair, “you wouldn’t hurt a soul unless ya needed to. Don’t worry ‘bout paper work or nothin’. I’m sure no one will miss that lot, anyways. I hear you were up fightin’ the Luftwaffe, so you can go home and rest, sir.”

Before Phillip could object, the officer went back to tend to the gang members, followed by several of the pub’s occupants, including the bartender. Soon it was just Rose and Phillip, standing near the entrance, the pub’s radio quietly playing a message from Prime Minister Winston Churchill.

Rose shook her head as the speech continued in the empty pub. Her lips curled slightly as she spoke to Phillip. “I knew this is what would happen. You’ve tried to be a stand-up soldier, but I remember; I remember your father and how he treated those he didn’t like. Beat them down. He killed young Thomas Parker when Tommy and his pals robbed that shop back in Leadsworth. With a cricket bat, no less. And he got away with it, just you just did. The boy was only sixteen.”

Rose held back some tears before she continued. Her passion for children took hold for a minute. Before Phillip could reach out to hold her, she spat at him. “How old were those boy in the alley?” she continued. Same age? Younger, maybe? Just trying to make a living on the streets, too old for school and too young to die in a war that’s left them in dire straits. You’re the same man, Phillip Browning. You can’t hide from it. Today in the sky, just now in that alley. You’re a cold killer. You can’t escape it. You’re a good actor, fooling the RAF, being plastered on propaganda throughout the country. But you’ve ruined it. Because Johnny died, like the hundreds before him, and that’s when you reacted. I told you not to recruit him into your squadron. But you insisted you needed to watch over him. See what’s happened? Because of you, Johnny is gone, not to mention however many people you let die. You are no man. You are some sort of monster.”

Rose’s remarks were like an underground bomb exploding in his core, rippling outward and cracking his being. He’d viewed his life as an example for even others to follow. But it seemed that now, after losing it all, he can see the truth. The horrible truth of my life.

“Phillip, I never loved you. I married you to secure a teaching job after Roger died. You know this. And sure, many of a children were evacuated, but so many have returned because of the bloody poor planning on the part of you precious Churchill. I’m needed more now than before. I don’t need you now. I don’t want to be with you. And I want to leave before I am unfortunate to have a child afflicted with whatever curse that follows your family.” She stopped to give Phillip a chance to respond. He simply looked at the ground. “Well? Anything to say before I head back to pack up?”

But Phillip could only stare at the ground. He shook his head and let her leave out the pub. He’d lost his brother, his life, and his wife. He’d managed to follow his father’s footsteps without stepping in remotely the same direction as him. Nothing could be said to ease reality.

Phillip sat at the bar and waiting simply waited for the bartender. Even oak countertop, stained with age, remained dignified despite Phillip’s presence. When the bartender came back, he offered a drink to Phillip, on the house for all the mayhem that went on that day. Phillip asked for some whisky as he sat and listened to the remainder of the BBC broadcast of Churchill’s speech.

“We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender, and even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this Island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then our Empire beyond the seas, armed and guarded by the British Fleet, would carry on the struggle, until, in God's good time, the New World, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of the old.”